It Ain't About the Money
by INMH
Summary: Fill for kijikun's prompt on comment fic: "Supernatural, Anna/Crowley, he likes to give her things."


It Ain't About the Money

Rating: PG-13/T

Genre: Humor/Romance

Summary: Fill for kijikun's prompt on comment_fic: "Supernatural, Anna/Crowley, he likes to give her things."

Author's Note: …I'm so sick of that song, and I kind of hate myself for using lyrics from it for the title. BUT IT FITS.

IN OTHER NEWS, this is my attempt to write Crowley/Anna, which is one of my new OTPs.

_God_, my brain.

Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke (Who is not me), and the title is taken from the song 'Price Tag', by Jesse J (Who is also not me).

()()

Anna's mother had taught her several things during Anna's relatively short life as a human. In regards to men and the gifts they gave: "Never accept jewelry from a man until he gives you an engagement ring."

And so when Crowley gives her a necklace, she politely declines.

Oddly enough, he doesn't look offended. In fact, Anna slightly regrets turning it down, because the look in Crowley's eyes is a lot like the one he adopted when Dean had said that 'no one, demon, angel or human, could out-drink Bobby Singer'.

As she recalls, that particular incident did not end well.

Her suspicions are confirmed when she's next given a bottle of rather expensive wine and a leery grin from him that implies he's hoping she's the kind to get loose when imbibing alcohol.

"I don't drink." She says coolly, handing it back to him.

This time, it seemed a brief flash of annoyance crossed his face. Confusion, maybe, at how he hadn't realized that, and wariness as he wonders if maybe she's doing this solely to bait him. She knows that he has trouble reading her on a regular basis, and she's actually a little proud of that.

A week or two later when she goes to Crowley's house (mansion, whatever), she's intercepted at the door, but not by the demon.

"Okay, now you're just desperate."

"What?" Crowley appears beside her as they watch the very large leopard pace menacingly back and forth, restrained only by a long metal chain that looks a lot like a lead for a dog. "You like animals!"

The leopard roars at Crowley, either knowing or sensing that he is the one responsible for this. Though it can't hurt either of them, both demon and angel lean back a little.

"Thank you, Crowley, but no."

She sees him bite his lip, growling a growl that actually seems to disturb the big cat for a moment, and then sighs, unhooking the chain and trying to pull the leopard along like, again, a dog. "Come along, Bosco, let's get you back to Angola."

Anna thinks about intervening when the two disappear amongst Crowley's disciplinary shouts and the leopard's snarling and clawing, but thinks it might be a valuable learning experience for Crowley.

Is she baiting him? Maybe. Just a little.

Anna thinks it's good for his ego to be _wrong_ every now and then, given how he is, so often, right.

There's only one thing she wants from him, but he's going to have to figure that out on his own.

()()

Finally, Crowley starts to catch on.

"Is there something you _specifically_ want?" He asks, because even though he's breaking down and being forced to confront her, at least once he gets an answer he'll be _right_. He hopes. Bosco made the trip back to Africa difficult. Demons don't heal quite as quickly or efficiently as angels.

Crowley remembers being human. And he remembers Fergus McLeod's wife, and how absolutely _nothing_ he did satisfied her. He was miserable, she was miserable, their kids were miserable: It never got better. And people actually wonder why he was willing to sell his soul for a few extra inches on mini-Fergus.

This issue with Anna has given him renewed sympathy with human men who seemed to be incapable of getting precisely what their girlfriend/wife wanted of them, no matter how many times they tried. Before he would have called them whipped; now he might call them drinking buddies.

Anna gives that some thought, rocking back and forth on her heels as she did. It was so curious to see an angel with such blatantly human characteristics.

"Maybe."

Crowley cocks an eyebrow at her. "'Maybe?'" He quotes, and the little gauge that measures his temper jumps up another notch. "Could you perhaps, again, _specify_ this statement of 'maybe' for me?"

Anna twists her head a little, looking him in the eye knowingly. "There _is_ something I want."

"And what would that be?" Let no one ever say he couldn't hold his temper when he felt he had to.

Crowley felt that hold slip a touch when Anna shrugged.

"I think you can figure it out."

"You overestimate me."

"No I don't. You'll be fine."

She smiles, waves, and then disappears. That's another oddity about her: She's the only angel that actually indicates that she's about to leave.

Crowley takes a deep breath, and then blows up the nearest vase.

Bloody angel and her riddles.

()()

Crowley settles in with a glass of scotch and tries to think.

He tried jewelry. He tried wine. He tried animals (He is _not_ trying animals again, at least not the kind that scratch and bite). Did she have a favorite food, a movie, a decorative Faberge _egg_ for pity's sake? How could he know? She had been very vague with her statement.

Crowley let out slow, huffing grunt.

Okay. She had been vague.

Anna wanted something, but hadn't said explicitly what. She had given no details whatsoever, confident that Crowley could figure it out on his own.

His brow furrowed; that _probably_ meant that the answer she was looking for was a relatively obvious one, at least from her point of view.

Another fun fact about Anna: She seemed to forget that angels and demons do not, as a rule, share similar lines of thought.

What did angels like? What did _Anna_ like, something that she apparently thought Crowley should be able to deduce on his own-

It clicks.

He thinks about it for a bit, and then groans softly.

Trust _her_ to be so, so…

_Corny._

He summons her down, and the lights flicker and one even explodes as she arrives in his den. The look in her eyes suggests a hopefulness that he's figured it out.

"Yes?" She asks mildly.

Crowley glares at her.

"Just so we're clear," He begins, "I _despise_ you for being so disgustingly pure and sweet that _this_ ended up being the obvious answer."

Without any further ado, he pulls her in for a kiss.

When they part, Anna is smiling that smile that the demon part of his loathes and what little is left of his human part kind of loves, because Fergus McLeod was never lucky enough to get with a woman who was actually wanted _him _and only him and not his money or status. Fergus McLeod's wife was no Anna.

"You got it." She congratulates, beaming. Crowley has an awful and almost terrifying sense that she might try to say something _cheesy_.

"Shut up before I puke," He grumbles, before kissing her again for insurance. Because he's still a demon, and demons don't get all fluttery inside when girls like them. Much. The statistics might be different if more angels liked demons.

Or maybe just more women like her.

-End


End file.
